


Weep

by AliPressure



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark!Peeta, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliPressure/pseuds/AliPressure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And as people forget me, (even you)<br/>allow the place in their minds that<br/>once<br/>belonged to me,<br/>to be filled with all else,<br/>I will remain held,<br/>in the arms of the earth, <br/>and the hearts of those already dead<br/>like me.</p>
<p>I am sorry, Katniss.</p>
<p>I couldn’t survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sneak Peak

_I could have sworn I was_

_completely different before:_

_my limbs worked well enough,_

_my brain, as well as it could,_

_my heart, as often as it would_

_My love is as_

_erratic_

_as the shape of the moon, and_

_no two people were loved_

_the exact same way._

_And you are the_

_most special._

_Until they were lost. Then,_

_the lines between love_

_and grief_

_dissolved_

_until the way the two emotions feel_

_the same_

_as they weigh upon my heart._

_Then I had no one to love but_

_the ones I_

_hated,_

_because they are_

_only ones who I feel anything towards_

_at this point._

_So when people weep,_

_It won’t ever be for me,_

_but for them,_

_I know that_

_And I will remain still—_

_Some will speak._

_All good things._

_One of them may be you._

_When it comes time for them to_

_feign joy and chuckle as if_

_they’re being drowned,_

_I won’t want hear them._

_I hope, by then, I won’t be able to_

_I’ll remain silent still_

_It will be final, then._

_I won’t have the opportunity to turn back._

_And as everyone_

_shakes_

_with tears suppressed in reverence,_

_quiet, but_

_as violent as an_

_earthquake,_

_I know I won’t want to._

_My field drab sentinels will cradle_

_my body not long after,_

_holding me tenderly,_

_for much longer than anyone ever had,_

_even you, Katniss_

_And even though they never_

_Will speak_

_to me,_

_their arms will feel stronger than_

_any term of endearment;_

_any unbidden, fallacious confession_

_And as people forget me, (even you)_

_allow the place in their minds that_

_once_

_belonged to me,_

_to be filled with all else,_

_I will remain held,_

_in the arms of the earth,_

_and the hearts of those already dead_

_like me._

_I am sorry, Katniss._

_I couldn’t survive._


	2. Insanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.  
> If you need any edits for your covers and things, just message me or go to my tumblr truedauntess64 DOT tumblr DOT com. I enjoy making them (I made the cover for this story) and I'm sure you'd love the outcome.

# 

# Chapter One - Insanity

_“Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.” ―_ Narcotics Anonymous _, Narcotics Anonymous_

 

I’d written my life in thoughts of her hair—the way it always seemed to be begging for the stroke of my fingers, deft, baker’s hands. My frame keened for her attention, pleading to be taken into her. But as I sat down to put into writing my thoughts, I came up short, and she seemed to fly by. She passed on a wing, with silent birds’ stealth.

Though when she went, she left a maelstrom in her wake.

I lifted my spirits when my name had been called. I’d wanted to impressed her; I walked, straight-backed, almost offhand, indifferent to it either way. I’d wanted to keep her safe; I’d sprung up a tornado of my own, that day she almost took off my hand (she was radiant, and I was Peeta, the baker’s son, the boy who had everything I needed, couldn’t have worked a day in my life, and was only unfortunate enough to have been reaped and she at least had hoped I would go quickly.) More than that though, I wanted to make her love me. I wanted it from my very core, to the little boy at five, listening with the birds as she sings and the world sighs.

   I thought it very morbid, then, how ecstatic I felt during that train ride. How this chance, the chance that grants us a good gamble at death, could be the one I need to make Katniss Everdeen’s world collide with mine. And I almost laughed, because it seems that that’s how love is, and it is for the morbid at heart.

She thought I was a joke. I had thrown her—I had her attention, notwithstanding the brevity of the occurrence. It was enough to last me the duration of the Games. The rest of my life, however long that shall be. Luckily, it hadn’t needed to.

She sought me out, preyed upon me. It was something I’d wished for. I’d relished her every emotion. It is only now when I feel the horror of those moments in the Games. It would have been so easy, so horribly easy for her to have cut me down where I stood. What was she planning to do with me? Is this how she wanted things to turn out? Almost everyone dead, a lot more dying, whilst she and I stay sequestered, alone so she can torment me, taste my blood.

I wish for my cell.

At least then, I was sheltered from my addled mind, the things that have confounded me ever since my name had been reaped. My family wasn’t dead, then. Panem was still safe. Katniss wasn’t plotting how to put me away in my sleep.

I was able to tell what was real. She wasn’t there to blur the lines.

I don’t know when things became about just Katniss. I could maybe guess, but over the years, my pining for her had bourgeoned in purpose.

I wanted it to end. Katniss had killed my entire family, her sister, drove away her own mother, and caused the entire nation to collapse. She’d spat in my face, yet I blindly persistent, constantly griping for her. I’d kissed her, touched her.

I was revoltedby myself.

I was shackled to the bed.

Stark white malformed all else, apart from an incessant beeping in my left ear.

I know where I am; I just don’t want to be here.

Awaiting Dr. Aurelius’ arrival, I revel in thoughts of the hunter girl’s blood, all the while craving the fit of her body against mine. By the time he comes, I’m hot and no doubt flushed from my thoughts, both from rage and arousal.

I am not startled by his frown, but the purpose he carries. Most days, he’s met with the futility of my recovery and relinquishes his job in trying to fix me.

Today, however, he arrives baring a stack of clothes and a silver key, at once relieving me from my restraints and handing me the stack. “A hovercraft will be arriving promptly for your departure—we will be communicating by means ofthe telephone.” He mumbles something akin to “Use it,” though the rest is incomprehensible. A small smile tilts his lips, as if he is too, now being freed. It’s a likely cause.

I rise from the bed, sore but standing. I dress, ever so slowly. It seems more difficult now than ever. As I thought I was getting used to this new leg, they tie me to a bed for four months, with only the bathroom and the occasional checkup with a heavily guarded doctor and up untiltwo months ago, Haymitch. He hasn’t seen me since. I couldn’t imagine what he’s been up to.

Dr. Aurelius doesn’t move to leave until I finish. He expects me to follow him. But, knowing what is to come—that I am leaving, forced back to District 12—and I stall. “I was hijacked. By people like you.”

He turns, that half-smile still tracing his face. “I apologize on behalf of ‘people like me’. I’m sure we didn’t mean it.”

His disinterested mannerenrages me. “What does that make me then?” I ask through gritted teeth, because whatever he has to say won’t matter in just as few minutes.

He raises his eyebrows, the act so simple, that it only angers me more. Because this is anything but simple. “Excuse me?”

“What am I, if I am hijacked? So terribly insane that I had to be held in custody until you deemed me correct?” Through gritted teeth, the words feel like daggers, scratching against my throat and spearing his consciousness.

“Well, I guess you said it yourself. You’re insane.” Hechancesthatsmile again.

“But all this time you’ve been trying to fix me—or heal me. Why?”

“You can’t be crazy in this world. Not any.”

“Why can’t I be crazy?,” I say, taking a seat, because this is my last day with him and he’ll want a break, some calm in spite of all recent entropy, but I won’t give it to him. He could all of the peacekeepers and sentries in this entire mansion, in all of Panem yet I will stand my ground.

He sighs, rubbing at his face roughly, his smile slipping from his features. “Because you want to remember. You don’t want to forget your family or all that has happened.”

“That’s why I don’t want to be crazy. That isn’t what I asked—I asked why I can’t be.” I hold my breath. Because I need to know if whatever happened to me can be cured. Albeit, part of the reason for my interrogative is cruel. He may not have been my bane, but he has a connection, an obligation to it. He’s been trying to fix me ever since the president died and someone remembered that there’s something wrong with me, that they had caused it.

I intend make him struggle as much as I do.

And Dr. Aurelius does. Finally he speaks. “I don’t think that’s valid,” is all he says.

I frown, shaking my head. “Of course you think so. I can’t think this way because you get paid to tell me otherwise. That’s why you can’t be crazy.” I rise from the bed, stalking out of the door. Again, I didn’t get what I want.

The walk to the hovercraft is terse, and every footfall sounds like stepping on glass. The linoleum floors are scrubbed pearly white, just like Dr. Aurelius’ teeth that beam as he shuts the hovercraft door solidly behind me.

 


	3. Bite My Tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, Reader. I had hoped to post this chapter much sooner. I have a schedule, though. I am thinking to post every other Saturday or Sunday. I want to be consistent for you guys, and I hope you love reading this as much as I did writing it.   
> I have something I need to say. It's pretty important. I'm so excited. Anyway, I plan to put this story on hiatus after a few chapters to focus on another WIP I have planned. I feel like this will be routine for me. If I can get a consistent schedule, I'll satisfy you with a "season" of my stories. Think of it like how they do it for TV shows--they give you a season or two every year. When those end, they film the next one. So, I will start that soon. Don't be upset. I'll make each one as satisfying as possible.
> 
> Enjoy!

#  **Chapter Two – Bite My Tongue**

 

 _I can’t hate the ones who made me_ \- You and Me at Six, **Bite my Tongue**

 

The hovercraft lands with an empty sigh. From one huge window to my right, District 12 is just as hollow. Barren and gray, ash heaps the span of the district and I heave deeply as well. I don’t know what I was expecting—to make a life in the Capitol? Abandon all pretense, become everything everyone said I’d be?

            Two peacekeepers arrive from a swinging door in front of me. My reluctance to leave must show on my face as they don’t hesitate before hoisting me up by my armpits and removing me from the hovercraft. I don’t fight them.

            Albeit their grasp on me remains, they lead me in respectful silence. They both have removed their helmets and look forward in reverence. I try to appease them with my silence as well. Just like a blade after many dulling kills, the peacekeepers have lost their edge since the fall of the Capitol.

            My heart pounds in my ribcage as we near the Seam. The town had taken the least of the attacks, and it seems as though everyone had left before the bombs came. I see no bodies here.

            In the Seam, skulls litter the dust and ash, seeming to rise from the rubble as we near them. I have to hold my mouth to keep from vomiting. The peacekeeper to my right, the palest one, takes deep, shutting breaths, pulling my arm tighter as he hastens his tread.

            We make it all the way from what used to be the square to the Victor’s Village before I begin to protest. Although, now it seems obvious. The rest of the district is completely uninhabitable with the slag clotting the air. And that’s what scares me the most—the inevitability of this all.

“No,” I say, struggling against both peacekeepers. They only grip me tighter. “I can’t live here. Please.”

            I trash violently in attempt to escape their forceful grasps. A ten foot wall of cement displays a welcome—the entrance to the Victor’s Village. They have to pin me against it to steady their hold. I scream and kick, and the pale one presses a green button on a device strapped to his belt. They hold me against the sign, pressing me firmly into what awaits for my future—again, one I didn’t decide for myself—until two more arrive.

The pale one must have called to them on his device. My heart sinks. Outnumbered, I stand against my nightmares.

            This is the place I vowed never to go back to. The bombs turned the district blemished by ash, rotten with corpses, its only inhabitants being the ghosts of those who once called it home. The ghosts of families I knew personally, some I didn’t know at all. The ghosts of my own family.

I let out a cry, trying to force myself from the wall. I know this is my fault.

My Games were the banes of these people lives.

But it was also her fault. The girl. She lit the spark that soiled the nation leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces, sopping in our own tears. She was the girl on fire—everyone knew that. But what no one could ever predict is that she let us all burn with her.

            I scream, fight, abandoning all feelings of respect for these peacekeepers. That’s all they are anyway. That’s all they ever were and will be, Capitol or none. I flail, but one of the new ones presses my head into the cement.

            The shortest one, one of the first two, pulls the guy’s hand away. “We’re not going to hurt the kid,” he says.

            Twice they shove me into the cement, three times the try to get me to enter the Victor’s Village. I try to relent each time. On the third attempt, though, I seek the barrier between the residences and me but come up short. They push me further.

            I believe it is a ghost when I hear the voice. We are a good distance inside, enough that if I do break free and run, the peacekeepers will be able to catch me before I make it ten feet from the entrance. I fight so violently, seeing nothing but my goal--to leave--and the images that come with being back here, that I don't even notice that we aren't alone. Someone appears from one of the houses, probably disturbed, is my first thought, by the fight and the noise. I continue to flay, despite. But then I hear his voice, hoarse now, probably from lack of his usual fluids.

            My head snaps up at his voice, the most familiar I’ve heard in a long time. “I’ve got him,” he says. The peacekeepers don’t relinquish their hold on me though.

            So Haymitch stands, palms out, negotiating. He looks much like he did the day Gale was whipped. The memory burns in my mind, as does the sight of him in front of me, as does the fact that I’m standing here at all, peacekeepers in tow. I push back into the arms holding me, further from Haymitch.

“I look bad, I know,” he sniffs, though looks offended when I balk. “You’ve seen worse.”

            I curl inward, away from my addled mind. Away from those whom I have learned to fear, to hate. Haymitch had been here all this time. He left me, to live alone in the Victor’s Village, his bottles and stupors being his only company. I know he wasn’t forced back here. He can live wherever he pleases. He appears uncharacteristically sober, and titters a nervous glance at the house next to his, next to mine. Hers. And I understand that he didn’t come here alone. He came for her. He left me in the Capitol to protect her.

It’s always just Katniss.

I imagine her perched at her windowsill, watching this all, reveling in my moments of weakness.

Too close. We’re too close.

I can hear the ticking of her claws against the window pane, her malevolent grin at the fear she knows swirls around my head.

 _But she doesn’t have claws_ , I try, _she’s not a mutt_.

But I remember them, her blade-like nails twisting from their beds, drawing the blood from my cheek and chin, from her own. Scratching, clawing at herself and me. Her tears mingling with the blood until it seemed as if that was what was slipping from her eyes instead.

I remember.

            Bile rises in my throat. I retch on the cobblestone at the peacekeepers’ feet. They abhor, releasing me quickly. I don’t take it as opportunity to flee, however. I fall to my knees immediately, as their hands on me were the only things keeping me upright.

            Visions of the Games, the Capitol, the train flash before my eyes, rushing toward me like a thundering rollercoaster that I have no ability to thwart. Each one passes and a new terror takes its place. I shut my eyes so tight that an assault of whetted colors squirm behind my eyelids. I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to steady my shuddering body. The tremors are violent, causing my teeth to chatter and a tight whimper to tumble past my lips.

“Peeta,” Haymitch cautions, a hand on my shoulder. He rarely says my name, and the thought startles me, causing my convulsions to tear through me and words to fly from my mouth.

The peacekeepers have left. I’m not sure when.

The only impression they leave is the chill that runs through me as the hovercraft pushes on overhead.

            It’s a while before I realize what I’ve been saying, muttering about how he left, how I’m not safe, never have been, nonsense. Muttering, shaking. I cry and Haymitch crouches down in front of me, his arms encircling me after a few minutes. This is how we stay for a long time.

Her eyes seem to penetrate my mind the entire time, never leaving where I quiver and sputter for her to see.

 

            For a long while, I don’t move from where I stand in the sitting room. For long minutes, painstaking hours, my feet stay planted in the middle ofthe room. All the while, the floors echo with footsteps never taken.

            I can hear them everywhere. I still smell the scent of my father—he smelled like the bakery and spent most of his time there, too. I can hear my brothers’ constant criticism, smile at the thought. I can feel the sting of my mother’s gaze, of her hand. I don’t miss her any less.

I return everything I touch to wherever I found it, hoping to keep their spirits alive. I try to leave the house clean, the way my mother would have liked since having guests over became a regular occurrence. And even after a couple of weeks, almost everything is still covered in a thick jacket of dust.

Now that I live here again, most of my thoughts are spent on my family. Katniss still invades my dreams, but my waking hours are filled with the love I once knew.

Nevertheless, they still trigger unbidden hallucinations. In them, skin burns and blood boils and my family always dies. And even when they’re alive in my dreams I know to wake and find them dead.

            I do try attempt to clear my mind of those thoughts. I decide to convert the spare room into an art studio. I spend hours standing in this room as well, though for different reasons. Better ones. I imagine painting the walls, but can’t figure what. And this does ease my mind, allowing me to order many different palates from the Capitol, painting on spaces of the wall and repainting them when they don’t seem to fit. Most nights, still, I leave the room with a blank, white wall.

            Some days, though, days when I do paint on it, I look out of my window at the house to the right of mine. I feel her presence in the twenty-five feet separating us, a haunting feeling despite the way her residence seems to slouch in void. Oftentimes, I can see her silhouette at the window, rocking slightly in her rocking chair, idling, suffering. It’s as if she never moves except for the soft intake of breath, the slight rock back and forth. I stare for long periods of time even though I may be caught. From the summer I begin to watch her, to the crispness that is the harbinger of winter, when my breath is visible against the window where I stand so close.

She never notices me. I bite my tongue bloody to keep from yelling to her; I grind my fists to keep from running over and doing the same to her skin.

Those nights, the nights when I stare for what feels like days, minutes, I transfer her likeliness from my mind onto the wall. Sometimes she’s singing. Others, she’s killing. Most times she’s dying.

 

 


End file.
